Fiction Relay – part 2

Do you remember the tremendous fun we had writing the fiction relay a couple of years ago? The excitement of not knowing where it would go? The thrill of seeing the characters take the story into their own hands? Well, thanks to Delilah over at mynouvellevague, it’s Relay time again!

The homepage is here if you want to read more about it, and although we are only up to part two there is a plot summary here which will grow as the story unfolds.

OK then, if we’re all ready, if we all have a nice cup of tea ready, here is my effort for part two. I know it’s only short, but that’s the way these things develop – once we get in full flow we will be struggling to keep chapters under 2000 words.

Right, stop digressing TRG, post that thing already!

 

DELILAH’S FICTION RELAY – PART TWO

 

Rosalie hefted her bag over her shoulder with one hand whilst tugging open the imperfectly-fitted door with the other. The unshaven and seemingly unslept man in front of her stumbled forward slightly as the opening of the door interrupted his knocking. His hand retreated from where the door had been and, as he dropped his arm to his side, hid inside the frayed cuff of his candy-striped bathrobe. The faint unidentified stains and the tiny cigarette ash burns hinted that his robe had been moonlighting as daywear; the thinning unfastened cord revealed a grey t-shirt and khaki sweat pants in a similarly stained and aged state.

Rosalie stood with an impatient hand on the door jamb. “Hello,” she said curtly, wondering how long this would take

“Hi,” the man said, looking her up and down, “I live downstairs.”

“Okay.” Rosalie shifted her bag’s weight and closed her cardigan a little. His eyes returned to hers.

“Have done for quite some years now,” he continued. “Many of the residents see me as a kind of caretaker for the block.”

Rosalie noticed light wrinkles around the man’s eyes, indicating his true age was more than his jet black hair and dark stubble implied.

“Right,” she said, pulling the door closed. The man retreated as she stepped into the hallway but his conversation continued.

“And as you’re new here,” he said, “I thought I’d mention a couple of… well, not rules as such, more codes of conduct, you might say.”

“But I am about to -”

“Your music,” the man continued, “I wonder if you could play it at a lower volume?”

“I didn’t really think it was -”

“It’s not that I have anything against Ornette Coleman per se,” he interrupted again, “but I prefer to play him at a time of my choosing rather than have him imposed on me from above.”

Rosalie sighed, walked past him. “It’s Artie Shaw,” she said wearily and headed down the stairs to the ground floor.

“Well, whoever it is…” came the voice from upstairs but as she opened the building’s main door, the rest of his sentence was drowned out by the sound of traffic. Four concrete steps and she was on the sidewalk. She turned left to join the stream of pedestrians and quickened her pace.

 

Over to you IGTBCS…

 

 

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